


Golden Touch

by escritoireazul



Category: Make It or Break It
Genre: Age Difference, Coach-Athlete Relationship, F/M, Face-Sitting, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Payson wins her Olympic gold medal, she decides it's time to claim her real prize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/gifts).



Payson slips Sasha's gold medal over her head. It’s heavier than she ever expected, a solid weight against her chest. She presses her fingers against it, feels the bumps and ridges of the surface, but it’s not enough. She tucks it beneath her shirt.

It’s warm from her hands, but the more it rests against her bare skin, the hotter it feels. Sasha touched this. Sasha held it, cupped it in his hands, curled those long fingers around it. Maybe he even kissed it, showing off for the cameras, and the thought of his mouth on the medal and the medal against her skin makes her breath go weak.

*

She doesn’t think about using it for – for anything else. Not at first. It just hides under her shirt or hangs on her wall where she can see it from her bed before she falls asleep, when she wakes up in the middle of the night, close enough she can reach out and touch it.

She touches _herself_ one night, and ends up staring at it by the end, when her body is tight and her breath uneven. It glitters, even in the darkness, and when she tries to close her eyes rather than stare, she can’t.

*

Payson considers telling Sasha what she’s done many times, considers calling him in the middle of the night, her hand tucked between her legs, fingers working herself furiously, the weight of his medal against her skin, but the only time she comes close is when she gives it back to him, and watches as he wraps his hand around it and smiles, just a little, just for her.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Turns and, as she walks away, very carefully thinks the words she’s not yet ready to tell him.

_I think about you when I touch myself._

She doesn’t hesitate because of him, because he’s her coach and so much older, or because it would be a big distraction, though all those things are also true. She holds back the words because they are hers, secret and precious, and she isn’t ready to share.

*

It feels like the middle of the night, even though it’s not even midnight yet, when Payson knocks on Sasha’s hotel door. She’s wearing a hoodie and warmup pants and sports sandals, no socks. Her toenails are bare, and there is a bruise on the top of her right foot. She has to knock twice before he answers, but she doesn’t worry that he won’t be there, that he’s off with friends or strangers, drinking and laughing.

It’s her night to celebrate. Of course he is there. He has to be.

He is. Sasha opens the door and blinks at her, actually looking surprised. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, and he looks tired. 

“I thought you’d be out celebrating,” he says at last.

“I am.” Payson grins at him, and he smiles back. “Move, Sasha. Let me in.”

He steps back, and then makes a face like he’s thought better of it, but it’s too late. She crowds into his space until she can push the door shut behind her.

“Congratulations on your medals.” His smile is steady again. “I knew you could do it.”

She can actually feel her grin grow bigger, until her cheeks ache and she feels a little wild from it, bared teeth, out of control. She didn’t win the individual all-around gold (Jordan took it, and, honestly, Payson couldn’t be happier for her, and it makes for quite a heart-warming, inspirational story anyway), but they won team gold, and Payson is happier with her actual gold medal for that floor routine than she ever dreamed she’d be back when she daydreamed about what would happen at the Olympics. Back when she was a power gymnastic, not artistic.

Back before Sasha convinced her she was beautiful, when she was so lost in her own doubt she couldn’t find herself.

Now, standing before him, she knows exactly who she is and what she wants, and she’s pretty damn sure she knows how to get it, too.

“I know you’re my coach,” she says, pressing her hands against the door behind her. He watches her, and his smile drops away. He’s serious, and silent, but she doesn’t need him to speak. Not yet. “I know you think you’re too old for me. I know you’re worried about – about power imbalances and age differences and.” She stops. That’s not where she wants to focus. “I used to get off. To your medal.”

His mouth drops open, and there’s a long moment where he just stares at her before he snaps it shut again. “Payson.”

She pushes away from the door. “I don’t care that you’re old,” she says, then adds, fast, “older than me. And I don’t care that you’re my coach. I might retire now.” Probably not, though. Standing on the podium, gold medal at her throat, she was already thinking about 2016. But maybe. Maybe she’ll retire. She’ll be old, then, for a gymnast. Part of her feels too old now.

Old, but it’s been done before.

He shakes his head. “This is a bad idea.” Then, after a delay, her name again. Just that. “Payson.”

“I want you, Sasha. You mean so much to me.” She doesn’t say _love_ , but she thinks it, maybe. That’s a dangerous, complicated word, and she’s not quite ready. Not for that part. “You mean _so much_.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it without saying anything. His expression is hard to read, but his body is angled toward her, and it feels – it feels welcoming.

She walks closer, until she’s standing before him, face tilted up. She’s putting everything on the line here, everything she’s feeling just out there, and maybe she’ll be rejected. That will hurt, it will wound, but she’s been wounded before.

She’s afraid. She’s going to do this anyway.

“I want to be with you, but if you don’t want me here, tell me. I’ll leave, and we’ll never talk about this again.” She takes a breath. “I know what I want. I wanted this.” Here, she holds up her gold medal, and it catches the light, shines. “I want you.”

He doesn’t say anything. She steps closer, reaches up, touches the medal to his chest. “Tell me to leave,” she says. He’s silent. “Or ask me to stay.” 

Sasha’s breath hitches, and he touches his hand to the medal. His fingers are warm when he brushes the back of her hand.

“Payson,” he says again, her name rough in his throat, and then he slumps toward her, his hand running along her arm as he bends. “Stay. Please.”

She raises up on her toes and kisses him. This time, Sasha kisses her back, his mouth open for her, lush and warm. His tongue strokes against hers, and heat pools between her legs. They kiss and kiss, his hand on her shoulder, hers pressing the medal against his chest, their bodies not otherwise touching.

Finally, Payson draws back a little. Sasha’s hand drops back to his side, then drifts up to touch the medal again, and her fingers, the pulse at the base of her wrist. Her heart is pounding. She knows he can feel it, but that doesn’t make her uncomfortable, him knowing what he does to her. Not anymore.

“I want to tell you a story,” she says, pressing the medal just a little harder against him. “Would you like to hear about what I did, with yours?”

“God, Payson.” He stops, closes his eyes a moment, then nods. “Yes. I would.”

He’s wearing a t-shirt and loose pajama pants, and when she looks down, she can see the swell of his dick against the fabric. She did that. She made him hard.

“Can I see you first?” It’s a question, but there’s nothing hesitant about it, nothing shy. Not the way she feels, gold medal in hand, Sasha freaking Belov staring at her with dark eyes and a mouth wet from her kisses.

He keeps his eyes on her as he pulls his shirt off, tosses it onto the desk chair, then peels down his pants. He’s not wearing underwear, and, for the first time, she’s a little shaken. That’s such a – he’s a man, experienced and sexual and. God. Her throat is tight, her chest too. 

He watches her stare, and smiles, but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything. Just waits.

Payson breathes in, breathes out, and lets herself look. His legs are strong, his thighs still muscled and solid. His waist dips in a little, a bit of a cut where it meets his hips. She wants to put her mouth there, bite down, make him squirm. 

His dick juts out hard, a little short but wide, against a thatch of dark pubic hair. It curves a little, to the left. She wants to know what it feels like, how it tastes, wants it, wants him.

She licks her lips as she slowly drags her eyes up to meet his gaze again, and he actually shivers a little at the expression on her face.

“Lay down,” she says. It feels more like an order than a suggestion. He grins at her, and moves to the bed. It’s unmade, and he pushes everything down to the end, out of the way, then settles back against the headboard.

“I’d like to see you, too,” he says, voice mild. Payson shifts her weight, pressing her thighs together for an instant. Oh, yes, she wants him to see.

She sets the medal on the bedside table, and then slowly, carefully, removes her clothes, hoodie, tank top, warmup pants. She’s not wearing a bra, but she is wearing panties, plain dark red cotton. She wanted to look sexy, to _feel_ sexy, but she doesn’t own anything like that. In the end, she wants to be herself more than anything else.

Besides. The way Sasha’s looking at her, eyes dark, intense, she can’t imagine she could possibly feel any sexier than she does when she strips them off and stands before him, naked. Small breasts, callused hands and feet, body bruised and beaten by the things she’s put it through.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, and she smiles.

Payson picks up the medal and climbs onto the bed, then straddles his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. She could touch him, and almost she does, skims her hand just above his dick, but then she holds up the medal, lets it dangle between them.

“You gave me your medal.” Her voice doesn’t shake. She’s glad for that, because this is hard, words like this, talking like this. She’s never done anything like this before. She doesn’t even like to talk about sex with Kaylie or Lauren. “When I touched it, I thought about you. When I thought about you.” She stopped, put one hand on the inside of her thigh, fingers spread wide. He followed that movement, already breathing faster.

“Show me,” he says. Asks. Definitely asks, and that makes her smile even more.

“You want to see how I like it?” She touches her fingers to one nipple, tweaking it just a little. His eyes follow her movements, and when she’s sure he’s watching, she pinches it tight, the sharp jolt of it making her thrust forward a little. He's warm against the inside of her thighs, and part of her wants to just move forward a little, take him inside, and give in to what her body wants.

Sasha’s hands drop to rest on the bed, his fingers just brushing against her knees. “I do.”

“Slow,” she says, touching her breast again, her nipple, the medal still dangling from her other hand, swaying between them. “I’d think about you touching your gold medal, and then about you touching me, your hands, your,” she blushes, but keeps going, “mouth.”

She lowers the medal, lets it rest on his thigh, and drags her fingers down her body, until she can tuck them between her legs. This is faster than she’d normally go, but it’s different, with him actually here, watching her, his breath harsh, his body trembling. Her fingers slip in her own wetness, and when she runs the pad of one finger across her clit, she can’t help but cry out. 

“Payson.” It comes out a groan, and triumph rolls through her. She’s doing this to him.

She braces herself against him, the medal pinned between her hand and his leg, and lifts up a little, until she can work her fingers at the right angle, three hard on her clit. Pleasure zings, and she cries out again, rocking forward, hips jerking. Sasha puts his hands on her waist, hesitant, and does nothing but hold her, the heat of his touch like a brand.

“I’d,” she starts, breathless from pleasure, the words coming rough, “do this, I’d – hard. Holding your medal, and I thought about calling you. I wanted you, wanted you to – to hear.”

His hands clench, and she grins hard. She did that to him too.

“Please,” he says. “Let me see.”

Payson bites her lower lip and pushes harder, working herself right to the edge, body shaking as her orgasm builds. She’s good at this, she knows exactly what she likes, what her body needs, and this is too fast, too soon, but he wants – he said please – and she wants him to see it, wants him to touch her, wants, oh, she wants, she wants, she wants.

She flings back her head and _keens_.

It passes through her fast and hard, leaves her heart pounding and her chest tight, but she settles back and looks at him almost right away. Sasha’s eyes are wide and dark, and his hands squeeze her waist so tight she’ll probably bruise. It feels great, though. She knows bad pain from good.

His dick is hard, rising between them, and wetness glistens at the tip. She reaches for him, wraps one hand around him, but before she can stroke or squeeze, he catches her wrist.

“Wait.”

Payson raises her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” If he wants to stop now, she will, she _will_ , but oh, she hopes he doesn’t, hopes he hasn’t been lying there, talking himself out of it.

“Nothing. If you do that, this’ll be over too soon.”

That makes her blush, duck her head a little. “Yeah?” She feels powerful, and shy. It’s a weird combination.

He nods. “There’s something I’d like to do first.” 

She tilts her head, watching him. “Okay. What?”

He puts his hands at her waist again, lifts a little. She raises up, and he scoots down until he’s lying flat on his back. When she settles again, she’s sitting on his stomach and she can feel his dick behind her, pressing against her butt.

Not for long though. “Up,” he urges, and she lifts up again, holding her body at a strange angle as he moves her higher, his chest, his face –

“Oh,” she says, and it sounds weird.

Sasha’s hands still on her butt, half holding her upright. “We don’t have to,” he says. “If you’re uncomfortable.”

It isn’t a challenge, she knows that, but it feels like one anyway. “I’m okay,” she says, and smiles. Hopes it doesn’t look as shaky as it feels. “I want to.”

He’s so strong. She knows that about him, she does, but it’s very different here, in bed, their bodies bare. It surprises her when he lifts her a little, settles her over his face. His mouth is warm and wet against her thigh, and then his tongue is on her, a long, slow stroke of it across her clit, and Payson stops thinking about how awkward she feels, or what if she knees him in the face, or what if she tastes weird or something.

It feels good. _He_ feels good. Everything feels good, his hands on her, his mouth and teeth and tongue. The medal slips from her fingers, and slides down her thigh to rest on the bed next to them. Sasha works a finger inside her, then curls it against a spot that sets her on fire. Her body jerks and shudders, and she grabs the headboard, trying to hold herself in place.

It’s then she realizes that it’s not a real headboard. It’s attached to the wall, and it’s thin, no real support. Her fingers scrabble over the edge, trying to get a grip. She can’t stop rocking, grinding herself down against his face, that perfect mouth.

Payson loses herself in it, how good she feels, and as her second orgasm breaks over her, she cries out, wordless and loud.

She tumbles sideways off him when it gets to be too much. Sasha eases her down, but she’s off balance, lands hard, laughing a little. He lifts himself up on one arm, leaning over her. His mouth is wet, his chin, his cheeks. That’s her. Oh god.

Payson covers her eyes for a minute, she can’t help it, but Sasha waits her out.

“That was great,” she tells him, and her cheeks are still hot, she’s clearly still blushing. Part of her hates it, hopes it doesn’t make her look young – younger than she is – but part of her, most of her, doesn’t care. She feels too good.

“It was.” Sasha wipes his face clean of her, and that makes her blush even harder, but she can’t stop smiling either.

He’s still hard, and, okay, they have plenty of things to talk about, but. She feels good. She’s happy. She’s a gold medalist, and she’s here with Sasha, and – oh, crap, she’s exhausted. Payson tries to swallow a yawn, but he catches her.

“Come here.” He slips his arm around her, and she settles against his shoulder.

“No, no,” she says, “what about you? You’re still—“ she gestures at his dick, but then makes herself keep going, because if she can’t even say it, well, that’s just stupid. “You’re still hard. I want to make you feel good too.”

“Later.” He presses a kiss against her temple. She loses a moment to a long blink, and there’s a blanket over them both, and she’s half asleep, one arm flung across his chest. Another kiss to the top of his head, and she hides a yawn, dozing.

*

She wakes up first, kisses him awake, and, the gold medal sparkling in the sunlight sneaking through the curtains, learns all the best ways to make him moan.


End file.
